


The Adventure of the Silver-Headed League

by Anglofile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Escort Service, Hurt, M/M, Sexual Situations, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/pseuds/Anglofile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all seemed perfectly reasonable. He would be paid a significant sum for each evening or event he spent with the client that chose him and though it was likely they would press for him to provide more intimate services, he was told how best to avoid it and thus avoid straying into the illegal pitfalls of the escort service. It wasn’t illegal for a bloke to go out for a drink and conversation just because he was paid to do it was it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Silver-Headed League

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rooperts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rooperts).



> Inspired by this post that started the idea in my head: http://thesilverheadedleague.tumblr.com/post/44849902163/sexysilverfox-anglofile-anglofile
> 
> Thanks also goes to Theopoiesis for encouragement and grammar check.

He did it for the money at first, he really did.

Divorce was expensive, even without any children, and God was she determined to take every penny.

The letter arrived the Friday after the divorce papers had been signed and officially filed. Lestrade honestly thought it was junk at first, something to be thrown away. But the expensive envelope and paper gave him just enough pause that he opened it anyway.

 

_Detective Inspector Lestrade,_

_I run a small but thriving business that connects clients with the company of men of a certain specialty. It has come to my attention that you fit the specifications my clients require. Rest assured that you will be paid handsomely for the services required of you._

_It is my honour to invite you to join the Silver Headed League._

_Sincerely,_

_Baron Adelbert Gruner_

_P.S. Call the number provided on the enclosed card. My manager for the London branch will be in contact with you._

 

It all seemed perfectly reasonable. He would be paid a significant sum for each evening or event he spent with the client that chose him and though it was likely they would press for him to provide more intimate services, he was told how best to avoid it and thus avoid straying into the illegal pitfalls of the escort service. It wasn’t illegal for a bloke to go out for a drink and conversation just because he was paid to do it was it? And Greg could talk for all of London if the mood struck him. It just happened that his mood would be struck by a fat paycheck was all.

 

* * *

 

His first client appeared on the horizon not more than a week after he’d signed all the paperwork and gone through the official photoshoot for his profile. He was told to dress smart and meet him at an address in London. Upon arrival to what the sign on the door said was the Diogenes Club, Greg handed his official Silver Headed League card to the man at the door and as per his other instructions, said nothing until he was led into a very large room where he was told he could then speak, so long as it was in a moderated voice of course.

Something about the place and the name of it niggled in the back of Greg’s mind. He always knew to give into that feeling, and it had helped him solve quite a few cases. Copper’s instinct, his first DI called it. Greg just wish he’d figure out what it was trying to tell him.

His instinct was answered five minutes later when a very familiar, very posh voice spoke behind him.

“Ah, Detective Inspector, I’m so glad you’ve found the place, or should I call you Gregory?”

Greg’s heart dropped into his stomach. Somehow he’d thought, with the millions of posh bastards in London that could buy time with him, he’d not actually encounter a posh bastard  _he knew_.

“You…” He sighed his Holmes sigh; even he’d noticed he sighed with a particular note of martyred frustration around the two. He reminded himself that he was being paid to do this and marshaled his facial expression into a more neutral pleasing manner. “You can call me whatever you want, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft tutted. “Now, now, Gregory, I’ve given you leave to call me Mycroft before.”

Greg gritted his teeth and smiled. “This is a bit different, don’t you think?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Must I order you?”

 _Fuck yes._  Greg looked askance for a moment.  _Jesus Christ on a motorbike, where had that come from?_ “Fine. Hello Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s smile wasn’t quite sincere in terms of pleasure but Greg could see the smugness there. It set his teeth on edge. “Would you like something to drink? Port? Sherry? Tea?” Mycroft asked, ever the perfect host.

“Tea’s fine thanks. No drinking on the job.”

Mycroft inclined his head, accepting Greg’s rigorous stance on the rules. He typed something in a keypad near the door. “It should arrive in five minutes. Please, sit.”

Gregory sat in one the chairs and nearly groaned at how comfortable it was. They’d have to pry him out of it just to get him to leave. “Mycroft, I’m not sure I understand why you’ve picked me. You’ve got to know how awkward this is.”

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows arched as he looked at the other man. “Even I like to have a companion now and again. I thought we would suit.”

Greg scratched his forehead as he frowned. “But you know me, yeah?” he asked, clearly confused, “So why not just ask me, ‘Greg would you like to have some tea?’ Like normal people.”

Mycroft chuckled. Greg knew it was at the normal people bit. Because how could a Holmes ever be called  _normal_? “Because, Gregory,” he said smoothly, “A friend of mine appears to have been in very dire need of money after a recent divorce and I thought perhaps, rather than try to give him money that he would not accept, as I have tried before-“

“You were  _trying_ to bribe me into spying for your brother  _before-”_ Greg interrupted.

Mycroft gave him a look that made Greg fall immediately silent. “As I was saying,” he continued, “Rather than try to give him money as I tried before, I thought paying him to provide a service would satisfy both parties. I am nothing if not an incredible compromiser.”

There were many, many things that Greg could say to that and it was probably the best thing that the porter came in with their tea and thus prevented anything that would have had Greg deported to Siberia.

 

* * *

 

The meetings became weekly after that and Greg tried his best to not think about how much Mycroft was paying for this. What’s more he did not think about the fact he’d been informed that Mycroft had paid for his exclusive attentions. It would hit his pride far too hard and if his marriage proved anything, it was that Greg could ignore many things for a very long time if his pride was involved.

But even he couldn’t ignore this for long. Their conversations ranged over a large field but there was an undercurrent of something in each of them that had Greg pause. Mycroft, damn it, Mycroft Bloody Holmes was an attractive man. Greg knew it and wondered why such a man didn’t have someone else in his life to have tea with.

 _To fuck_ , Greg’s traitorous mind supplied.

 _Maybe he’s like his brother, above all that. Sex is sweaty and messy and Mycroft hasn’t shopped anywhere other than Bond street in his entire life. He likes order and elegance. Posh things_ , Greg replied.

 _Then it’s sort of telling he’s with you, ain’t it?,_  his mind supplied,  _Even you can’t ignore how he eats you up with his eyes._   _Stop ignoring the obvious you twat._

Greg then told his mind to fuck off.

It was on the tenth time that they sat in near quiet having tea in the stranger’s room of Mycroft’s posh club that Greg’s patience broke.

“What the hell are you going on about? I was told by this point the client will have likely propositioned me at least once and here you are like the bloody fucking Queen, asking if I’d like sugar in my tea!”

Mycroft paused and stared at him. “I thought I’d wait for you to come to me,” he said quietly but firmly.

“I’m not going to, for the record,” Greg began.

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. 

Greg sighed and closed his eyes.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

Which was probably why Gregory Lestrade found himself naked and tied to Mycroft’s bed around a week later.

“I’m gonna get fired for this,” he’d raged in front of the fireplace in Mycroft’s study, “But you, YOU-“

Greg pointed an accusatory finger.

“You knew it would get to me. Didn’t bother dating me the normal way, now did you? Don’t give me that bollocks about helping a friend out. Maybe that’s why you started but that’s not why you lick your goddamn lips after every bit of nibbles or sip of tea. Fucking distracting that’s what you are and I-“

Mycroft stood up, his long limbs eating away the space between his sofa and where Greg had been pacing. “Are you quite done?”

Greg just glared at him. And then kissed the ever bloody fuck out of the posh bastard in front of him.  _His_ posh bastard.

Who then lived up to his name by stripping Greg, tying him to the bed, and then stepping away looking as unruffled as ever.

“I think we need to talk.”

“I think we need to bugger each other’s brains out, you arsehole.”

Mycroft smiled. This smile was lascivious and damn if Greg’s cock didn’t respond to it. “In due time, Gregory.” He sat on the bed and trailed a finger up Greg’s body.

Greg moaned and then vowed to exact revenge the moment he was untied.

“Several officials in Her Majesty’s government have been threatened with the revelation of, shall we say, sensitive information,” Mycroft began, “All of these selected men have been found dead after their accounts were emptied and in every case, the escort has been accused of their murder.”

“So why is it that your office is involved? Wouldn’t someone below you handle this?” Greg asked testily, “Or, you know, the actual bloody police force?”

Mycroft’s smile, showing how he was humouring the other man, just made Greg want to punch him.

“They’ve been slowly working their way up the ranks as it were. When you were invited to join their league, I knew I was to be their next target.”

Greg frowned. “Why me? And what’s more, why tie me up to tell me this? I’m not gonna run.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Proof that we slept together. There will be marks on your arm from the straps.” He narrowed his eyes, considering his work. “Perhaps a little of my aftershave to prove you stayed the night and…” Mycroft leaned over and sucked on Greg’s neck, just above the collar. “Better to be more than a little convincing yes?”

Greg whimpered. “You could just fucking sleep with me you goddamned arsehole of a posh bastard,” he growled.

Mycroft tutted. “Language, Gregory, really. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I kissed you.”

Mycroft smirked. “That you did,” he considered before sighing. “Oh very well, just to prove I am not  _completely_ cruel…”

His hand smoothly moved down to Greg’s cock.

 

* * *

 

The next morning they had another talk, this time Greg was allowed the freedom to move about though he had no doubt he’d be tied up in a moment if Mycroft fancied it.

The incredible, galling problem there was that Greg fancied it.

“They’re going to call you in very soon and ask you for any details. Things I might have told you when post-coital glow was distorting my sense of discretion.”

Greg nodded. “And I’m to tell them nothing.”

“No,” Mycroft replied smoothly, “You’re to tell them everything.”

Greg frowned at him. “But you haven’t told me anything.”

Mycroft pulled a folded paper out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “Memorize this and then give it back to me. It contains sensitive information regarding military research that your people will be interested in gaining for the money they can get from the highest bidder. Don’t give it up right away. Demand a price from them.”

“That’ll piss them off though,” Greg said absentmindedly as he studied the paper, “What’s the backup plan?”

Mycroft looked at him with approval. Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid you know. You control God knows what and have a brain bigger than your brother’s. I know you well enough I reckon that you’ve got a plan for every letter in the alphabet.”

“You’re going to be wearing a very sensitive listening device and camera on your clothing. I'm afraid a weapon won't be given to you as they'll check for that sort of thing but my team of agents will be waiting nearby. As will I.”

“You?” Greg looked askance. “I thought you didn’t stray from your office, your club, your home, and Sherlock’s flat unless absolutely necessary.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Clearly it’s necessary.”

“But why?” Greg shook his head. “Look, I’m happy to help you. They’d kill you next and for some reason I’ve developed a defect that makes me look at your annoying bossypants know it all mentality with affection so I’d rather you not die. But your agents can handle it. No reason to put you in the crossfire.”

“They’ll call me in to blackmail me,” Mycroft replied, “Considering their headquarters are in Whitehall, I’ll be nearby anyway.”

“They’re not going to do it on the night they’re talking to me though,” Greg argued, “Try again. This time with the truth, yeah? None of the bullshit that comes to you so easily.”

Mycroft looked away and Greg knew he’d won something, though he wasn’t sure what it was. “That…” he began, “is something we can discuss after this is finished.”

Greg let it lie. He knew the best way to get a confession was to get them to admit to a little thing first. Mycroft would bend, but only on his own time. There were more important things to do.

 

* * *

 

Greg’s heart was pounding with adrenaline when he reached the headquarters of the Silver Headed League again, this time because of a sternly worded summons. This was it. Greg hadn’t been undercover in some time and he found the fact he didn’t have to worry about the wife being left alone if he’d died exhilarating. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

One of the staff members let him into a small study. He’d met Duncan Ross at his initial appointment but the other man sitting there, flanked by bodyguards, he had not.

“Ah Gregory,” Ross said, American drawl more pronounced than ever, “We’ve been waiting to hear from you. Your client has been quite  _taken_ with you I hear.”

“He fucked you,” a thick German accent said.

 Ross smiled. “Allow me to address my boss, Baron Gruner.” In an instant the smile was gone. “And you know what that means. We’re going to have to let you go. We’re not running a prostitution ring.”

Greg bowed his head and feigned shame. God knew he had practice feigning it on Sherlock’s behalf in front of his supervisor. “Yes sir, I understand.”

“Unless…” Ross said slowly, “You could do something for us. Then we might let this all go away.”

Greg let himself show hope. “Yes?”

“Your client is a very powerful man,” Gruner stated, “You must have seen that. Did he ever let you see anything of his work?”

Greg winked. “Yep. Memorized some military codes in fact. Can’t always tell when it’s important to get a leg up on the bigguns.” He really let his humble roots show in his vocabulary to sell it.

“And here I thought you were an honest cop,” Ross said with a grin.

“I’m a cop who needs money. Honesty is for the rich and that’s not something even they’re interested in,” Greg returned quickly. “Here I wrote ‘em down for you. For a price.”

“You’ll get your bonus,” Gruner said gruffly.

Greg held out the paper.

Gruner took the paper instantly and smiled greedily. He turned and nodded at his guards.

Greg found himself facing two guns. Shit.

“Over there if you please,” Ross said coldly, nodding to the corner. “And hand me your phone. I have need of it.”

Greg numbly handed him the phone and prayed the listening device on him was working. It was so discreet he wasn’t even sure where it  _was._ “Let me guess. You’re calling Mr. Holmes.”

Ross snorted. “Didn’t even tell you his first name did he? Knew he was cold fish. Surprise you weren’t frostbitten when he stuck his cock in you.”

Greg’s cheeks turned pink with anger but he held himself back and let them pretend he was embarrassed. “Am I still gonna be paid or are you stiffin’ me?”

Ross typed out a message and sent it. “We’ll throw you a line, don’t worry,” he said nastily, “You should be grateful if you’re still alive though. Now shut up.”

Greg shut up.

Mycroft arrived fifteen minutes later and was brought into the room, immediately looking concerned that Gregory was being held by the barrels of two guns. Greg approved of his acting skills and returned the favour by looking distressed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mycroft asked coldly, “Gregory, come here.”

Greg looked at Ross and Gruner for permission. They nodded at the guards to let him go.

“Oh how sweet,” Ross purred, “The Iceman has melted for a man he’s been paying to see. A man who’s betrayed him.” He held up the paper that Gruner had given him and waved in mockingly.

Mycroft looked at Greg. “You didn’t,” he said beseechingly, “Tell me you didn’t.”

Greg looked down guiltily before changing his expression to reveal how calculating he’d become. “I need the money, Mycroft,” he smirked, “And I’ve always hated you for making me take Sherlock on cases. Why not get a little revenge?”

“You bastard,” Mycroft snarled at Greg. Suddenly he pushed Greg behind the armchairs beside him. Mycroft turned and pulled his own gun out of from God knew where and shot one of the guards.

The other guard began to shoot back and Mycroft ducked back where Greg was hiding.

“They’re getting away,” Greg hissed, “And Jesus fuck why can’t you warn me about your plan B?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes before ducking back around to engage the other guard, shooting him square in the forehead. He stood up and pulled Greg to his feet. “Because,” he said testily, “I rather hoped I would not have to employ it.”

Mycroft then handed Greg his gun. “I expect you’ve kept up on your skills…”

“Since you sent me to get high and shoot at a hellhound? Yeah I did.”

Greg could see that Mycroft was trying his best not to roll his eyes as he walked towards the open door. “So what are you going to use?”

Mycroft took his umbrella and twisted, pulling out what Greg could only describe as a sharp, miniature sword.

“I knew it,” Greg whispered triumphantly, “I knew you’d have something in that thing but that’s not going to-“

Greg stopped the moment he saw an entire man now impaled on the end of the blade, which was then calmly pulled out of the man’s body, which had slumped to the ground. 

“You were saying?” Mycroft asked, bored.

“Christ,” he breathed.

Mycroft looked unimpressed. “He got blood on my suit,” he said mournfully. “It’s ruined.”

“What are we going to do now, your prissiness?” Greg asked, impatient.

Mycroft looked down his nose at him, annoyed at being called out for his preference to appear immaculate. Greg swore the man was like a bloody cat.

“Gruner will be emptying his safe of money and valuables to get away with the codes he took down from you.” He inclined his head towards the door. “Come. We’re going to end this now.”

“Ruff, ruff!” Greg barked.

Mycroft sighed, put upon once again. They crept into the darkened hall where shadows could be anything, including people set out to kill them both. “You are being exceedingly difficult tonight.”

Greg walked behind Mycroft, frequently looking back to better protect them both. “I’m always difficult. But I’m charming so no one notices.”

“Except me.”

Greg snorted. “Still tied me up and gave me a handjob, didn’t you?”

Mycroft huffed. “I was being magnanimous.”

Greg laughed softly. “You were being a-”

Mycroft stopped in front of the door to the main offices. “Shut up,” he hissed.

Greg froze. They could hear movement in the room.

Mycroft nodded quickly and slipped into the room. “Oh I wouldn’t think you’d be leaving so soon,” he said icily, “We’ve just begun to talk. Rather elaborate set up, just for little old me.”

Greg rolled his eyes. As if Mycroft Holmes had ever thought of himself as little old anything. Mycroft’s body tensed as if…Something was wrong.

Gruner was in the room with someone that wasn’t Ross. Which meant-

Greg saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he tackled Mycroft to the ground.

 

* * *

 

“You should not have done that,” Mycroft stated calmly. 

In the end, Mycroft’s agents took care of the two masterminds of the entire scheme. It was perhaps lucky, if one could call it that, for Ross and Gruber that there was no gap between Ross shooting and the agents coming in for Mycroft looked positively murderous once he’d recovered from the fall.

But then again, Greg was partially to blame for that reaction.

Greg chuckled, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. “Course I should have. You’d be dead otherwise and then where would we be?”

 

Mycroft’s lips thinned as he looked at Greg’s blood soaking his jacket. “This isn’t a time to be joking, Detective Inspector.”

 

“Yes Mum,” Greg groaned, “You’re calling me Detective Inspector. I know I’m in trouble now. Reckon I’ll be grounded?”

 

“Gregory.”

 

 

* * *

Only later, after the ambulance had taken him to the poshest hospital he’d ever been in and he already saw Mycroft waiting for him, hands clenched on his umbrella, did he try to make another joke.

“See? Just a couple stitches. It’ll give me street cred. That’s what all the kids say don’t they?”

“Will you STOP being ridiculous? You could have been killed,” Mycroft said behind clenched teeth, “Do you understand how idiotically stupid that was? I made a mistake and you have no RIGHT to make up for it by being a brave fool.”

“Well hello sunshine, seems you’ve still got your feathers ruffled,” Greg said, smiling. “And like I’d said before, you’d be dead if I hadn’t. Fair enough exchange in my mind for all you’ve paid me,” he reminded him gently, “Careful there, I’m beginning to think you might be more attached to me than a friend should be.”

It was a credit to how tired and emotionally drained Mycroft was that he looked down, swallowing, and revealing everything to Greg in an instant.

“Christ.”

Mycroft assembled his armor. “Don’t worry, Detective Inspector,” he said, cool and calm once more, “This was, after all, an act to make them fall into my trap. I won’t bother you anymore.”

He stood and began walking towards the door of the private room in the private bloody hospital Greg had been put in. “Get back here you git.”

Mycroft froze. “I beg your pardon?” he asked as if he’d been grievously offended. He probably had, Greg thought. Still, the man returned to where he’d been sitting by Greg’s bed. Greg might have been a little bit proud of that, a man like Mycroft Holmes, who gave orders and never ever took them, accepting his orders. Yet again his rebellious mind supplied all the ways he could be ordering the other man about and he ruthlessly told it to fuck off again. There were more important things to do.

“You should be begging my pardon,” Greg agreed, “Fuck, Mycroft, if you wanted me to fall in love with you, you could have done it the normal way. Not through bloody subterfuge, covert operations, and a shootout!”

Mycroft looked lost. The look was eerily similar to his brother when something Sherlock had said or done was deemed cruel or hurtful by John. “You…”

“It was a stealth attack, and I don’t know why I’m surprised that’s how it happened but, yeah,” Greg admitted. “I love you, Mycroft Bloody Holmes and when I get out of here, you’re going to have sex with me. No teasing. No tying up, at least until later. Just two bodies getting to know each other and the hearts that have fallen for each other. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg began to laugh. Giggles turned into full on belly laughs and if his wound hurt a little, it was worth it. This was the most absurd, ridiculous, absolutely impossible man who had made him fall in love with him in the most complicated way a person could have ever done and it was absolutely fantastic.

“Now that’s more like it.”


End file.
